


Blood and Cross sections: Naivete

by Marystormshade



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M, Gen, I do what I want, I mean, JUST, Kinda, Lucien Lachance x OC - Freeform, M/M, OC's literally everywhere, Vicente Valtieri x Lucien Lachance, Vicente Valtieri x OC, and if i fuck it up imma throw a table, but not really, by writing fanfiction, eh, here, i love the game, i spent like four months plotting this out, imported from my ff account, probably, probably won't screw with the canon, so of course i have to ruin it, take it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marystormshade/pseuds/Marystormshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every man has his thorns, not of him but in him, deep as bones. The scars of the world mark him, a calligraphy of violence, a message of blood-writ, requiring a lifetime to translate. And she, the eyes of everyone who ever cared." - Emperor of Thorns</p>
<p>During the third era, the year 431, two years before the Oblivion crisis, and its end: a young alchemist, a dealer of death, and a thief end up face to face with destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Threshold

Evening Star extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving sleet, and Morning Star arrived, cold winding through the ground, like whispers from the tree’s, bottom up, frozen hands biting. With hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed skin and faces.

Calloused palms pressed against each other, entering a fierce rub as moist hot breath beat down on them.

“Cold as shit.” The owner of the palms declared, slapping his hands a few more times for good measure. The man, thin black hair thinning on his scalp, scratched at his chin as he looked about his camp and motley group. Wasn’t everyday that a band of Highwaymen stuck to a single camp for more than two nights. Hell, they’d been here four.

“Aye. Ain’t a thing to do though.” Another, older voice replied, tired and hoarse sounding. A belch came from the same direction followed by snickers.  
“I wonder if the lass is getting cold? Needs somebody to keep her company I’m sure.”

All pairs of eyes revolved past the fire. The Breton girl that they’d captured was still there, feet bound to themselves, arms bent at painful angles and thick leather trapping her neck, knees and ankles to the tree she sat near. They hadn't bothered to cover her mouth, figuring their threats to be sufficient enough. It was almost comical, if not for the tear streaks filming across her cheeks, dried blood echoing her nostrils and terror filling her eyes.

Who were they kidding? It was pretty damn funny.

One of the younger members, a wily lad with bones for brains, tried his luck as he walked over jauntily. His fingers found her knees as he leered at her.

The reaction was...expected.

Kicking out the Breton strained against her bonds with new found passion. A startled sob wracked her as she pulled on her wrists vehemently. She even managed to knock the lad down on his ass for all his trouble.

“Leave the girl alone will ya. She’s makin’ a right ruckus and I’d rather be sleeping.” Came the aggravated voice of another man, clearly fed up with the groups shenanigans.  
“Screw her on your own time but keep it quiet.”

The girl shivered.

“Shut your mouth.” Another slap of hands, application of friction, and the first man stood up.  
“That’s not how this is gonna work. Nobody touches the girl. You hear me?”  
Grunts went around the camp but the young bone for brain was glaring at the girl.

The man went towards him, fingers wagging so as to continue circulation.

“I said; Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now sit down. Watch that Skeever. Don’t want it charred now. Bloody riot that would be.”

The belching older man rolled to his feet, fixing his gaze on the balding man; who had was clearly the leader of the group.  
“We can’t stay here forever Stentus. It isn't healthy for bandits to be still for so long. The men are getting restless, they need a good raid.” He glanced over at the Breton. “A good screw too maybe.”

Stentus blew through his lips, a thin stream that tickled the wind.

“What would you have me do, hmm? The whole bloody lot of them guards are looking for Fat Ramp. No. We need to stay here, keep our heads down… We can go lookin’ for some trouble later. For now, just shut up and stay down.” Stentus turned and headed away from the fire, toward the dense underbrush and thick tree’s. Most likely to relieve himself.

The belching man lingered a bit longer before he too scoffed, and with a final glance in the Breton’s direction, made way for his tent.

* * *

 

He held no qualms with the wildlife surrounding Skingrad. He did however, hate stickler bushes with a passion. The things bit into his cloak, tore at his ankles and even tried their luck infiltrating his shoe. Quite a few of them succeeded.

No, Lucien Lachance generally enjoyed the outdoors, but tonight, his patience had long since departed him.

It wasn't the dead drop, no, that in itself was a simple enough task; any reasonably skilled initiate could complete it. Find the bandit camp, kill this Stentus fellow: the chief, and leave no witnesses. What did annoy him however was the four day trek by horse (Not Shadowmere mind you, no, no, the black hand had required him for some other business), in the snow, with no definite location of where to find his target.  
It was a good thing he had a knack for listening to rumors.

A few people had referred to them as Highwaymen, others, Bandits. Lucien preferred ruffians, but that’s just arguing semantics.

The guards of Skingrad had shoved him off with a general “to the east”. Which also happened to be where it was snowing the heaviest.  
Lucien cradled his hands in his lap thoughtfully. Perhaps, he decided, he would stop in the Imperial city on his return trip. After all, he hadn't gotten to enjoy the view on his last trip, far too busy washing the blood from his boots.

Sensing in his fingertips a change of approach, Lucien reigned in his horse, calming it for a moment with a thrum of fingers against the tips of its nostrils. With the grace of one practiced in the art, Lucien maneuvered himself out of the saddle his feet landing firmly in the crust of the ground. He halfheartedly wrapped the horse’s harness to a branch, not particularly caring if it decided to wander off.

He crouched and listened.

A cold wind raced across the surrounding trees, turning the land into a heaving dark-green and white sea. It flew up through the branches of the pines and rattled the thin leaves. Sometimes a snow pile would break loose, tumble in the gale, fall and split, filling the night with its powder. The air was iron and heavy and growth.

He walked and tried to pull these things into his lungs, the silence and coolness of them. He had once been told of Sithis by a previous black hand member, his own recruiter if he recalled correctly (long since dead). The old withered man had described the endless void in a few choice words and raspy breaths.

A perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow. That is Sithis, the black nothingness of and before creation.

Lucien breathed out.

An itching began in his toes, curling and crawling its way up to his chest where it clenched and cradled him. He smiled, and snuck forward.


	2. blood is like drinking hot chocolate, but with more screaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of violence in this one  
> but  
> eh
> 
> AND HERE WE GO
> 
> Playlist for this Chapter: 
> 
> Ten Cent Pistol -The Black Keys  
> Cause For Alarm -The Heavy (UK)

She was running out of options, but running out wasn't an option. Her wrists ached and chafed under constant struggle, her feet were numb as she shifted them closer to herself and stared into the fire.

Steady.  
She breathed out heavily through her mouth, a puff of fog escaped from her lips and she watched it critically, waiting for it’s dispersion. She switched her gaze to the fire a moment before nestling her face against her knees. Shutting her eyes she allowed her mind to drift, before her breath began to even, body slacken, and lips part as sleep overtook her.

* * *

 

His eye’s swept along the edge of the camp. All but a few of the men had retired, not including the Breton girl who he had initially not noticed, and were sitting about the fire meandering and appearing relatively exhausted.

He counted six tents in total, each with enough room for about two moderately sized men (or women). He doubted however that these tents were filled to capacity.

He glanced at the Breton girl, curled in on herself, clearly sleeping. Her braided sable brown hair fell to her side. He noted vaguely that she snored lightly.  
Three men sat near the fire, none very interested in anything around them other than the fire and the occasional swig of mead.

Lucien cocked his head, he had of course heard stories of these bandits, raiding and raping in near equal quantities, the attack of many a merchant caravan, and paltry murder here and there. He considered all these things as he crouched a bit lower, and moved toward the tent farthest from the fire.

It’s occupant looked to be a man in his mid thirties, gruff and dark skinned.

Lucien shrugged, as he had not been given a description of his immediate target.  
Probably best to kill them all then.

Gripping the hilt of his dagger, (a simple steel thing; sharp and clean, but not very flashy) he swiftly pressed his unoccupied hand onto the mans mouth, using this new leverage to push the man’s head toward his chest. The man’s eye’s flashed open in panic and surprise, but Lucien moved quickly, a dragging motion, a gush of blood, and the man’s eyes closed.

The process was repeated similarly once more in the adjacent tent. Resting on his heels, Lucien pressed himself into a corner and listened. By now two of the three men around the fire had left either to sleep or relieve themselves. He waited a moment before slipping out through the crack of the cloth. Sneaking toward a drowsy young man near the fire, he centered his blade and swallowed in air. There was a deft crack as the metal pushed past ribs and into the chest cavity of the now gasping man. Lucien stood to his full height, pulling the dagger upwards with him, cutting through the muscle. As he pulled back, the man let out a gut curdling screech as he fell to his side, falling to silence.

The other’s were slow to react, some not even initially hearing the scream. One man appeared from the tree’s, grasping at his trousers and axe both, clearly caught off guard. Lucien, seeing an opportunity, propelled himself forward; knocking the axe wielder off balance. The axe dropped out of his hands as he tripped backwards, eyes wide, and landed bum first in the modest fire. Lucien pounced on the man, cracking his foot down onto the his chest, knocking him to his back and effectively holding him, until his person was nearly completely engulfed in yellow flame.

The other men have entered the dimly lit clearing now, there’s only four of them left. They all stare at Lucien, as though the ground has coughed him into existence but moments ago. A burly man (clearly the leader, and possibly Stentus) grinds his teeth and raises his great sword slightly.

“Get the bastard!”

* * *

 

She had shot up and out of her reverie upon hearing the cry and crunch of bone, eyes wide as she watched a figure move in her line of sight, tall and cloaked in shadow, the figure surged towards the four bandits who stood in front of it, weapons raised. The figure held a glint of metal in its hand that cut through the still white air like charcoal on parchment, and each time the dagger was brought down, making contact with armor and skin, the figure would skip backwards, snow crunching beneath it.

She gasped as suddenly only two men remained. Biting her tongue she threw her head back and squeezed her eyes shut until it hurt and the black of her sight became a stinging and oppressive red. Tears slipped through and froze to her cheeks. She kept them closed.

Another moment or two passed before a relative silence took over the campsite. The only noise was the gargle of dying men.

She opened her eyes slowly and tried not to scream.

It was looking straight at her

The figure was a tall man with thin black hair that seemed to be pulled back underneath his hood. The garb he wore consisted of a dark wool winter overcoat, draped over an even darker outfit of black and red (she couldn't tell if the red was part of the fabric or the blood of the dead bandits). A black hand was smeared over the red section of his coat, near his heart. Clearly an insignia of his faction.

She cried out when she saw it, hysteria peaking.

Sharp hazel eyes found her face and observed her critically. His gaze lingers momentarily, before he steps over the corpses and moves onto the tents, rustling through the items.

She felt blood rush to her head, her stomach tightening and shrinking, as if something dangerous had missed hitting her. She feels as though she’d been caught doing something immoral. There’s a flush of shame, of guilt and terror, and of cold disgust with herself. She sniffs and swallows her tongue.

“W-what are you doing?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy, like a sparrow that's lost the energy to fly.

A smooth voice calls back:

“Supplies. I’m running low.”

Despite her fear, she found herself incredulous and doubtful. Somehow she doubted that this had all been for supplies.

“Who are you?” She cries out suddenly, impatiently, scared.

At this point the man exits the tent, a slightly bulging bag in his hands. He looks up at her a moment, before moving to the bodies, patting vigorously against the underside of the armor and clothing.

The man’s silence unnerves her, so she decides to speak:

“I’m Ajal Litav. I used to-” He stops her with a sharp chop of his hand, indicating his disinterest and wish for the subject to end. Ajal complies, obligingly.

The man stands, pockets a bit heavier, and makes to leave. Ajal begins panicking, she tugs on her bonds, enunciating her current situation.

The man keeps walking away.

“You can’t just leave me here!” She screeched at him.

“On the contrary,” he drawls, “I am perfectly capable of leaving you here, to freeze. Unless you’d prefer to travel with me, Lady Ajal?”

She stops her struggles and looks up at him, his eyes are cold and his left hand rests on the hilt of his dagger, daring her to speak of it. She see’s the red on his shoes and on the ground. She remembers the sound of the men dying. She see’s the cut of his knife.  
Ajal pushes against the tree and breathe’s out.

“I didn't think so.” The man say’s, almost amused. He turns and begins to walk away again, before pausing, sighing, and rummaging through his pockets.

Ajal’s eye’s open at the feel of a foreign weight on her stomach, and she makes a noise of disbelief.

On her lap is a small dagger, iron in origin, and not nearly worthy of a spec of praise, but at the moment it is a saving grace among the white and red of the forest. She looks up for the man, a smile on her face, but frowns when she notices that he’s already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes well
> 
> there it is


	3. a feisty cat is introduced

Now, it would be completely irresponsible to assume that during this exchange and brief meet of fate, that the world froze, that markets closed and all waited with baited breath for the outcome of the encounter. No, it would however, be more accurate to believe that not a damn person was even aware of the event, that no one peaked out windows for the arrival of one or the other, that all of Cyrodiil, all of Tamriel, simply...was. No, it is safe to assume that life went on.

Not but a three day’s journey away, in the Imperial City a war raged.

Not a war of fist’s and blood mind you, but rather a war that involved the biting of nails to the quick, and the flash of avarice in a street passerby. 

The chill of the Morning Star reflected against the cobblestone, rang against doorknockers and crept along windowsills. Snow began to fall once more, drifting along windows, politely begging entrance and then falling with disappointment to the ground. 

It was evening’s like this that M’aima felt blessed by Rajhin to have been born with such a thick coat of fur. 

The Khajiit, M’aima, drug lazy fingers through the fur of her cheek, rubbing the orange of her face against the brown of her hands. Loud laughter and chatter moved around the corner as Imperial men and women walked leisurely among one another’s finery.   
M’aima watched the small procession of merchants and ladies from the crevice of a building, her eyes sharp upon the pockets and hanging pouches. 

She pushed off the building and pulled up her hood. 

“M’aima asks the Silent Walker for his blessing. She does not wish for trouble.” 

An older imperial man, taller than M’aima herself, walked a bit slower than the rest of the group, his eyes wandering along the edge of the streets and catching on the stalls and windows. His foot, clad in fine leather and draped in a soft blue cloth. The blue cloth caught beneath M’aimas nimble foot and his arms waved wildly about as he tripped forward. 

Now, if you were watching closely, you would've seen M’aima grip the man’s upper arm in an almost reassuring way, as her other hand dipped past his waist and into and past his purse strings. She gripped the fabric and pulled it to her chest, where she gracefully placed it beneath the folds of her robe.

Theatrically M’aima brought her hands to the sides of her head and let out a small wail.   
“M’aima did not mean trip the rich man! She only meant to walk past him!” She widened her eyes and bent backwards slightly. 

The older man seemed surprised, and disgusted, before he pulled away from her in a huffing fashion. 

“Damn vermin.” 

M’aima maintained her distraught pose until she was certain that the man wouldn’t be coming back to confront her anytime soon. Dipping forwards and back into the crowd, she crossed the cobbled path and followed it along the opposite direction of the still continuing procession. She stopped at the doorstep of The King and Queen tavern, dark eyes fixed on the swinging wooden sign above her head. With a sigh, she pushed her way in. 

The tavern was brimming with patrons, almost ridiculously so. Some sat in dim corners, eyes on their own drinks, while others still boasted about, singing or laughing.   
M’aima ignored these people, as they were not the one’s she was here to join with, instead her eyes roamed the bar, searching and finding what she was looking for. With a huff she sat next to a redguard man, his thin haircut and hard eyes were easily spotted in the crowd, and she handed him the pouch of coins and jewels. He didn't look at her as he lifted it slightly, testing the wait, and peered inside. 

He gave an approving grunt and placed the pouch in his breast pocket.   
“Not half bad, Tadpole.” 

M’aima hissed at the nickname. Though her current official guild position was ‘Toad’, he still insisted on calling her Tadpole, demeaning her slowly growing skill. 

“Talk to S’Krivva, she has something for you.”

"What if M'aima does not want to speak with S'Krivva, hmm?" 

The red guard man smiled humorlessly, and tilted his head in a mocking way. 

"Oh? Little kitten doesn't want to talk? Would you rather have a scratch behind the ears for all your good work?" 

M'aima pushed off the bar and stormed off. She'd show him, the bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A significantly shorter chapter in comparison. But, then again, I don't really care so
> 
> hey look
> 
> a khajiit 
> 
> M'aima is similar in coloring to a West Virginian Cougar, which is a chestnut/orange combo. And very striking in my opinion.


	4. i went to the city once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciations are as follows:
> 
> Ajal Litav -> Ah-jaul Lihtahv
> 
> Eirnein Broken-Sword -> Eer-nine Broken Sword
> 
> M'aima -> Mih-aye-ma

"Here we are, the Imperial city. Isn't she just a beauty?" The balding carriage driver asked his passengers. A scrawny male Khajiit, an intimidating elder Nord man, and Ajal, who sat slightly withdrawn from the others, her eyes wide in approving fascination. 

"Yes, it's quite beautiful. You said that they were in the process of renovations of some kind?" She trailed off, not actually as interested in his answer as she seemed. The man seemed to think for a moment or two before his lips pursed.  
"Aye, they found some structural errors in the sewers. They finished construction just a fortnight ago." the balding man look back conspiratorially "There've been rumors of thieves making their home down there. Bloody madness if you ask me."

The carriage halted under the drivers harsh pull on the reins. The mares pulling eased up and whinnied in annoyance, as the weight of the yolk bit their darkened fur. 

"Off you go you lot. I've got other business I must attend to. I bid your stay in the city to be a good one."

The Khajiit was the first off of the carriage, leather boots landing in the drying dust with a snap. He moved about as he dug around for his belongings. "This one has enjoyed the trip with you all. M'aiq wishes to show gratitude for your kindness."  
Ajal noted the Khajiits lip spread in a strange grimace that was clearly a large grin. She returned it, eyes closing briefly. The Nord watched the exchange with mild interest, before he too stood and removed himself from the carriage, his knapsack clanked slightly as he shifted his weight. 

"I must be off as well, the forge waits for no man." He paused and eyed Ajal for a moment, "Girl."  
"Hmm?"  
"If you ever need a blade or something to defend yourself, come find me, Eirnein Broken-Sword. I'll take care of you." His gruff voice was laced with kindness and Ajal smiled. She had had an interesting time on the carriage, as it traveled the three day journey, exchanging rumors with M'aiq, and listening to stories of Skyrim from Eirnein, a luck trodden black smith.  
As they parted ways, Eirnein toward the northern gate and M’aiq to speak with passerby’s that caught his interest, Ajal fiddled with the strap of her pouch, being sure to secure it to her waist and just beneath the hem of her wool shawl. She breathed out, her breath turning to fog in front of her. She kicked at the snow on the ground for a moment, before she moved forward.  
Her fingers traced a barely noticeable outline on her waist, where her newly found dagger lay concealed. It wasn’t sharp and hadn’t been used for anything other than cutting the rope that had bound her. 

Still, she could not bring herself to be rid of the object. Perhaps, it was because Eirnein had been right, that she needed something to protect herself. Perhaps she was just stuck in a stalemate, unsure how to continue. Or perhaps it was simply that she did not wish to forget the man with the blood stained boots, cold voice and hard eyes. 

Ajal stared up at the spires just beyond the city gates, breathed in, out. And stepped across the threshold. 

Now, Ajal had never been to the imperial city in her lifetime, and was slightly put off by the pure size of the place. During her wide eyed observations she had failed to notice the darkly hooded approaching figure, that is, until after they bumped into her and caused her to lose balance and land straight on her bum.

Ajal made a sound of confused terror as she hit the slick ground, eyes shut tightly. 

“This one is sorry, she did not mean to knock over the pretty girl. M’aima apologizes.” A voice that sounded distant and scratchy apologized calmly. Ajal looked up and squinted at the orange and brown Khajiit. 

“It’s um...it’s fine. Just startled me that’s all.” She said embarrassed, head turned towards her feet as she stared at the pale rock of the road. It was then that Ajal noted the bottom of her pouch had a hole in it, torn rather adeptly, large enough for a small hand to fit in. 

“Hey y-” She jerked her head up, about to demand an explanation, but was met with an empty space. 

She pivoted about desperately, but there was no sign of the Khajiit. Ajal moved forward quickly and darted her head back and forth, checking the roads that led off, as well as any hiding places. 

She did a quick inventory and groaned.

“Damn.” 

The three hundred septims that she had started off with, were now a rather unimpressive one hundred, the back up coin that you kept in a separate pocket of the pouch. Everything else worth anything was gone. 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She whispered harshly to herself, pulling her pouch close to her, eyes on everyone that passed her. 

She kept moving.


	5. a grey eyed stranger and not enough alcohol

Lucien never went hunting without a second knife. It was now kept securely in a small sewn pocket on the inner leather of his boot. He had learned this valuable lesson of weapon-insurance after a particularly nasty encounter with a rather wry Khajiit who had managed to not only disarm him, but had sliced his neck with it's talons. He would wear the scars of that encounter forever, just above his clavicle and breast.  
In a fit of rage against the Khajiit, he had bludgeoned him to death with his fists.  
(It wasn't one of his cleanest kills, but definitely satisfying )

So, when at this moment, Lucien Lachance found himself face to face with a very angry Nord, a battle axe, the tightening quarters of the runes they fought through, and a disconcerting lack of a knife, he was a little annoyed.

With a cry the Nord pushed forward, weapon overhead. He swung and Lucien let out a breath.  
At the last second, Lucien feinted left, however the Nord anticipated this, and Lucien cursed when an armored gauntlet met his shoulder in force. He responded with a vicious kick to the unguarded half of the Nord’s knee. As the Nord regained his balance Lucien prepared. He bobbed left again during the swing of the axe so that the Nord hit the crumbling rock, trapping the blade momentarily. As he went to try to get the thing free, Lucien whirled around and nailed him in the gut with his second blade, springing a hole in the lower intestines. Meeting the Nord and his shocked stare, Lucien smiled and said, "What, you didn't think I'd have a second knife? Fool."

The man gurgled, saliva spurted from his lips as Lucien twisted the dagger slightly, prodding curiously with the sharp steel of the blade.

An oppressive scent rose into the air as the man fell from the dagger onto the ground, blood, bile and excrement spilled onto the ground around him, and Lucien gripped his hair tightly, a viscous reality against the entreating dread of death.

“Sorry, but, we aren't quite finished yet.”

* * *

 

As Lucien emerged from the depths of the Ayleid ruins, he was acutely aware of the glare of the sun off of the freshly fallen snow and felt annoyance at the idea of trudging through wet and cold for near a day just to reach Cheydinhal. He peered at his mount, a stock horse with no real love for his current rider. It neighed at the inspection as though daring Lucien to saying something.

It was only then that he realized how conspicuous he was, dressed from head to toe in black in the midst of a white wilderness, appearing almost magically from the ruins of a long dead people, with a speckled horse and little to no gear.

He clicked his tongue loudly and the horse came to him, albeit reluctantly. He shed his outer cloak and replaced it with a less recognizable dark brown cloak. He undid the tight band at the back of his skull, letting his raven hair lay freely on his shoulders. He dropped his hood and headed toward the Imperial city.

* * *

 

The King and Queen Tavern was crowded.

Men sat at the bar and spoke in hushed voices, others hummed to bard song, and still more gorged themselves on the meat and drink, available at a reasonable price, Ley Marillin insisted repeatedly.

Ajal sat off to the side, sharing a small table with an off duty city watch guard. They hadn't conversed at all, deciding instead to remain comfortable in their own personal silences.

Ajal sighed and shuffled through her satchel, before pulling out gripping a scrap of parchment, the chicken scratch barely eligible in the margins.  
“Excuse me, but, if you don’t mind, could you tell me where to find The Gilded Carafe, I’m having just the worst luck at maneuvering around this city.”

The guard gave her a leveled look, let loose an annoyed breath, glanced out the window and turned toward her.

“That’s Claudette’s place. Terrible name, but a good shop if you've got a knack for alchemy. It’s across from Rindir’s Staffs and just wedged between Slash ‘N Smash and Best Defense.”

Ajal smiled gratefully. “Thank you! I've been searching for hours and had no luck.”  
The guard looked unimpressed before giving a dismissal wave.

“It won’t do you much good now, it’s dark out, Claudette will have it closed down for the night.”

Ajal’s smile faded as she considered this. She was late by anyone’s standards. A whole week off schedule from meeting her mentor. One more night could not hurt she was certain, but there was the matter of sleeping. She’d have to rent a room, and with her quickly dwindling funds, this wasn't something that she reveled in.

She excused herself from the table, with a final thanks, and made her way to the bar.  
“Have you got any vacancies?” She asked hopefully.

Marillin looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding.  
“Yes! I do believe I do! The one available for rent is at the end of the corridor, a single bed and other such commodities. It’s ten septims a night.”

Ajal relinquished the coins, and was saddened to feel the loss of weight from her satchel.  
“Whenever you’re ready, here’s the key.” He said, handing her the key. She accepted it gratefully, pocketing it for later use. She relaxed against the bar and watched the bar strum her lute. Ajal closed her eyes and hummed the tune, a slow and steady sound that resounded gently through the room and soothed the patrons. It reminded Ajal of fireside stories with her grandmother as a child, and brought a smile to her lips.

However, this reverie was quickly ended by a draft of cold air and the hinges of a door protesting loudly and verbally.  
The patrons all looked up to see who had entered, and many quickly put their attention back to whatever it was they were doing.  
After all it was just another Imperial man in an unremarkable cloak, with unremarkable hair and most likely a rather unremarkable life.

But Ajal watched as the man’s eyes scanned the room right to left before, landing on her.

Ajal looked down at her feet quickly, embarrassed at having been caught staring. The man looked at her for a moment longer before he made his way to the bar, next to her. He did not turn toward her at all, instead directing his attention toward Marillin.  
“Have you got any rooms?”

Ley shook his head, and nodded toward Ajal, who was silently mortified at having been brought into the conversation.  
“Sorry, you got here not but a minute too late.”

The stranger turned toward her, slightly amused.

Ajal took a small intake of breath.

The man was striking physically, a strong jaw, well kept hair that was clearly a pride, a finely crafted nose and strong build. But that was not what caused her surprise. It was rather the steely gray of his eyes. Never wavering, calculating, and so so familiar.

She feels some primal fear whisper along her neck and the hairs of her body rise.

He turned away, nodded toward the patron and said something about checking the Merchants Inn for a vacancy.

Ajal watches him leave and does not move from her spot for a long while, until she is sure he is gone.

That night, in the scratchy sheets of the rented bed, in the inn of the city, in the safety of the patrolling guards walking, she dreams of bloodied boots.

* * *

 

As Lucien leaves The King and Queen Tavern, he allows a smile to grace his features.  
He hums the tune the bard had played and steps over the crunch of snow.

After all, this girl is no threat to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is worth noting, that though Ajal is suspicious of Lucien at this point, she did not in fact recognize him from their little encounter
> 
> Yes  
> AJal is in fact an idiot
> 
> thank you for noticing
> 
> No but seriously, she has like, zero survival instinct


	6. in which snow falls and books open

Lucien was awake far before any common person would be up, for the sun had yet to peek out of hiding and the entirety of the Merchants inn slept in comfortable silence.

He slipped from the duvet onto the hard floor. He ignored the mirror that rested on the bedside table, and instead dressed quickly, tying his hair back tightly. Lucien did not bother with the brown cloak, for very few would be awake at this hour, and any that were awake would care little for his departure. He would not hide when the moon was still bold in the sky.

He left the inn with a silent flourish, a black and red smudge in the white and gold of the city.

* * *

 

The morning brought with it snow. Great big flakes that land on the arms of the citizens, like cold moths that flutter away soon after. The sky looked to be filled with feathers.

Ajal dresses warmly. She purchases a fur coat, a ratty old thing, and she’s not sure if it’s lined with bear or goat, but she hardly cares, because it heats her skin and that’s all that matters. She nods goodbye to Ley, thanking him for the hospitality and the bed.  
She tells him nothing of how poorly she slept.

Ajal walks through the streets in relative silence, when old women with laugh lines and smile wrinkles in equal measure wave hello to her, she is happy to respond. When the guards give her curt nods she returns them and moves on. Ajal shivers as she stands in front of The Gilded Carafe, her nerves on fire.

She opens the door hesitantly and a small chime goes off, making Ajal jump slightly.

“Ah hello! Welcome to The Gilded Carafe! The perfect shop for all your alchemic needs!” An excitable woman says loudly, as she moves with grace between the counter and shelves, her blue charvet and corseted dress moving with her.

“Oh um, thank you, but I’m looking for Claudette.”

The woman stops and looks Ajal over. Her gaze hardens.  
“You must be the Breton. You’re late you know.”

Ajal turns red in equal measures of embarrassment and irritation.  
“Yes, I know. Though it’s hardly my fault, the caravan I had been riding with originally from Arenthia was ransacked by bandits and-”

“I care not for your excuses, only that you are here now. You must remember that I do this as a favor to your mother, not you.”

Ajal straightens at the mention of her mother and nods in understanding.  
“Of course. I’m here to work and learn from you.”

Claudette hums with a dismissive tone. She gestures for Ajal to follow, and she does. Claudette leads her behind the counter.  
“Here is where all stocked items will be kept. Your primary job will be to ensure that we are constantly stocked with Health, Stamina, and Mana infusions. Occasionally we have guardsmen or mercenaries as customers, so you’ll also need to restock any poisons that we grow low.”

“Poisons?” Ajal asks, surprised. She hadn't expected a city shop to sell such things. Claudette sighs.  
“Yes poisons, we sell more than you may think.” She fiddles around in the cupboards under the bar and pulls out large cast iron pots, heavy looking things.  
“Here is where you will mix and create most generic potions such as the health and stamina mixtures. However, Mana infusions and poisons require a more delicate touch, and for those, you’ll use” she reaches under again, this time in a different cupboard, “these.”

In her hands are different sized glass vials of differing sizes and shapes. Some are long and cylindrical, but many more are stout and round, for ease of stirring, Ajal supposes. The glass is a translucent green that captivates her.  
Claudette brings Ajal’s attention back.

“When you’re not entertaining customers you will spend your time preparing potions. Off of the top of your head, what concoctions do you know how to make?”

Ajal was unprepared for this question and so she stuttered a bit, which made Claudette look at her in annoyance.

“Um...I know my hand around a minor stamina potion and health potion. Oh and some cure poison and disease.” Ajal said, slightly unconvinced that that was the answer Claudette wanted.  
“Hmm. It’ll have to do for now. Those are our fastest selling items after all. However,” and here Claudette moved to the shelves, pushing aside some dark purple mixtures, “here are the recipes for nearly everything in the shop.”

In her hands was a large leather bound journal that looked older than her. The inscription was unreadable and in some strange rune language. Claudette opened the book and flipped the pages gently and with reverence.

“My grandmother paid a pretty penny for this from a Maormer. She translated the thing almost entirely into the common tongue, Cyrodillic.” Claudette said slowly, pointing to the differing styles of writing, one harsh and fast and the other smooth and elegant, painstakingly patient.

Ajal looked on in awe.  
“I've never seen a Maormer, I've heard they’re as tall as a tree.”  
“Hmm. I doubt that very much. Perhaps well proportioned would be a more accurate description.”  
Claudette shut the book abruptly, pushing it into a cupboard.

“If you are unsure how to proceed in the creation of a potion, or we get special orders, I suggest you consult the book. Now come, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

Ajal followed in silence.


	7. in which a letter is introduced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who just showed up two and a half years late with starbucks

To say that Ajal was completely and utterly prepared for her apprenticeship would be quite incorrect. It was not a partnership born out of mutual desire for learning and work you see, but rather a mother pleading with a friend to take her child under her wing. After all, not only was it unsightly for a woman nearing her twenty second summer to still be living with her parents, with no husband in sight, it was also extremely uncomfortably tiring at the pure passion that Ajal gave toward alchemy.

When it became clear that her desire to open her own apothecary would not ebb, Ajals father had proclaimed, “You can learn the art well enough. But you won’t learn it here.”

And thus, Ajal was sent on her merry way from Arenthia to the disgruntled hands of her mother's old friend Claudette, albeit with a few bumps in the road.  
Initially she had been excited, but having your caravan captured does diminish one’s mood considerably. Not at all to mention how unprepared she was for the fierceness of Claudette, who took her business very seriously and tolerated no shenanigans on Ajal’s part.  
But still, Ajal would think to herself every day, it’s a learning experience, and sometimes learning experiences are difficult.

She repeated this to herself as she massaged her fingers, calluses that had never been present before a month ago aching a bit, her nails were down to the quick to prevent snagging. The pads of her fingers were lightly stained in a mix of green and smelled faintly of something akin to mint.

At first, Ajal was convinced that Claudette would be a relentless task-master, with no interest in actively teaching. It turned out however, that she needn’t have fretted. Claudette was stern, yes, but she also showed a great deal of patience. It was slow going, but Ajal was optimistic. It had started off shakily, of course, as most apprenticeships do.

The first time Ajal had tried to create a resist shock poultice, she’d placed in the wings of a blue butterfly rather than a blue dartwing, and had to explain to an unamused Claudette that- no she hadn’t meant to create the most foul smelling substance in all of Nirn which also happened to be impossible to remove from the smocks. And how was she to know that a mix up of a small insect would cause this anyway?

****

It had been a little over a month in her working here and she was modestly proud of her ability to make quality stamina and health potions with no supervision. Her skills in poisons were improving as well, though she still felt uncomfortable whenever she had to look through the large book for a particular recipe in the ‘death droughts’ section.

Claudette showed an increasing sign of confidence in Ajal’s abilities as both a blooming alchemist and as an apprentice, as she began to leave the shop front to her while she went back to work on more complex concoctions and experiments. Claudette was currently neck deep in research on invisibility potions, and she was looking for a way to make them without the side effects of nausea and massive headaches.

It was on one of these days, as the sun had just passed over the walls of the city, cloaking it in shadow, that Ajal was up front, having just checked the stock, and now grinding Hawk beak into coarse grounds that she was shocked into wakefulness by a polite cough.

Jumping from her work station with a small yelp, Ajal looked up to see a man, who had clearly been patiently waiting for her attention, smirking softly down at her.

“Oh I’m so sorry! I was, um, distracted.” Ajal said quickly, not wanting to come off as rude, and eternally gratefully that Claudette hadn’t seen her blunder. The man nodded calmly.  
“It’s no worry. I’d been enjoying watching you work. You seemed very intent.” His voice was surprisingly melodic and light, almost breathy. It seemed to wisp through Ajal’s hair and into the floorboards.

His confession to watching her work had her momentarily immobile in sudden bewildered embarrassment. She caught herself.

“Right, well, what can I help you with sir?” Ajal asked, trying her best to fall back into the role of competent shop-assistant. The man smiled.

“I’m here to pick up an order that was placed some time ago. It was under the name V.” Ajal was puzzled for a moment.  
“Vee? Or do you mean, just...the letter?”

The man’s smile turned indulgent, like he was answering the question of a slow child. Ajal felt herself grow flustered under the stare, feeling oddly shameful.

“Just V.”

Ajal nodded, and pulled out the leather bound book used to keep track of orders, flipping through and finding a ‘V’. Sure enough the singular letter was there, with a list of the requested items.

****

_V_

  * _2 bushels of harrada_
  * _10 spiddal sticks_
  * __2 small vials of peony seeds__



****

Ajal looked at the list for a moment, and wondered what kind of potion could possibly need these ingredients. Then she felt stupid, because it obviously wasn’t for potions, but rather poisons. Feeling slightly apprehensive, she flashed a smile at the man and went about gathering the things.

The ingredients had thankfully already been set aside beneath the counter at some point, thanks most likely to Claudette’s foresight, and so Ajal shuffled them out and listed off the total price.

As the man, V, pulled out his purse and began the cursory action of counting his coins, Ajal took a moment to investigate.

****

V had a regal aura about him, solidified by the loose pony-tail and almost severe quality of his face. He seemed older, but didn’t look at all bad for it, as his pale complexion showed a powerful face, lines around his lips from where he’d been smiling, and crinkles around his eyes from where he’d been laughing. There was a certain softness in his face that didn’t match his eyes, which were sharp and intelligent, with mahogany eyes that almost looked red when the light hit them. Ajal could admit, that all things considered he was a fairly attractive man.

****

It was during her consideration of his physical form that he caught her eyes with his, a playful smirk on his face, which allowed for just a flash of whiteness beneath the lip.

****

Ajal looked away, feeling heat rise on her face.

****

“I believe that is the appropriate amount.” The man Ajal had dubbed as V said, gesturing towards the coins that he had stacked neatly. As Ajal quickly counted them, he began putting his purchased items away, into a satchel that Ajal hadn’t noticed until now.

“Right, yes, this is perfect! Um...is there anything else that you need help with?” Ajal inquired, noting the growing darkness outside, realizing that it was near closing, and she might have to tell the V to leave soon.

“Actually, yes.” V perked up, reaching into the pocket of his jerkin for a folded piece of parchment.  
“If you could acquire these items for me, preferably by the end of the month, I would be most grateful. Either myself, or a young woman will pick them up.”  

Ajal didn’t get time to even glance at the writing on the parchment as the man turned and began to saunter out.

“Thank you for your help Ajal, have a lovely evening.”

  
Ajal stared at the door as it swung shut, taking the mysterious man from view. Shaking herself from the odd desire to peek out the window and see the man walking away, Ajal began tidying and preparing for closing. No one else came by, and finally she bolted the door and wandered up to the loft where her shared quarters with Claudette were. The woman in question wasn’t in her bed, likely still working, so Ajal changed and settled down for sleep. Fleetingly she wondered how the man knew her name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna try to come back to this story, redoing the plot etc etc.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just assume I know what I"m doing


End file.
